


Happy New Year

by nursehelena



Series: Meanwhile, Off-Screen... [12]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Angst, Berserker Toki, Doomstar Requiem Coda, Drunk Toki, Post-Doomstar Requiem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 04:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1252600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nursehelena/pseuds/nursehelena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The band rescues Toki just in time for the holiday season, and Nathan tries his best to make it worth something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Halloween

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tumblr user packstrap](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tumblr+user+packstrap).



> My entry in the Tumblr Exchange-A-Rooni.

They kept it together for their first show back. The crowd, after such a long hiatus on Dethklok's part, couldn't know about the Hell they'd gone through in order to reunite. The band posed as a team, bent on reclaiming the empire nearly lost.

Riding home in the Dethkopter illuminated the cracks in their facade though, just as Nathan dreaded. Stale air peeled the years back, to when life was a lot simpler. Nathan always thought the most difficult thing he'd ever have to deal with when they got famous was figuring out which order he wanted to fuck his groupies post-concert. Now look at them.

Shock still reverberated through their group at what they'd accomplished, without any of them dying to boot. Not yet, anyway. But don't think like that. Toki was home, and in this lull after the Revengencers' dispersion and Magnus' death, they should feel safe. Nathan wanted to, desperately. He'd love nothing more than to return to his life as an overindulged rockstar, fighting with his bandmates for the remote control in the hot tub every night and holding contests to see who could drink the most beer in five minutes. Was that ancient history now? Did he take such moments for granted?

Pickles opened a bottle of vodka as soon as they got off stage, Murderface and Skwisgaar had yet to speak, and Toki. . .Toki curled up like a lost puppy on the couch, facing the back but obviously not asleep since his breathing remained even and he didn't tremble. Twinkletits worked with him on razing away the nightmares—offered his services to all of them, to which they adamantly declined—but it was too soon to see any progress. Nathan couldn't stand it. He missed the old days far too much. Toki needed to return to his old dumb self so that the rest of them could end this stupid fucking sulk. Sometimes he forgot just _how_ Toki transformed Dethklok with his initial admittance. The amount of dysfunction in that old apartment nearly forced them to kill each other before a catalyst for peace came along. Toki never cared if they called him gay or lame for remembering their birthdays, complimenting them on their respective talents, or peddling small, homemade gifts. He stubbornly insisted upon being the light in such a dark place, and fuck, they needed that.

And now they let that light go out, all because they were just a bunch of fucking babies who couldn't find their balls.

The Dethkopter lurched against Mordhaus' primary helipad as it landed and Toki bolted immediately, arms crossed tightly over his stomach. Before Nathan could follow, Murderface punched him in the arm. “Juscht leave the kid alone, geezsch. We got him out tonight, ischn't that enough?”

The frontman crossed his arms and peered down at the bassist. “Doesn't hurt to make sure he doesn't get fucking sloppy and go into a coma. What good was getting him home if he accidentally kills himself?”

“Oogh, cans we not talk about dis again?” Skwisgaar rubbed his stomach. “I amn'ts no doctors. . .but I t'ink we maybes just need a couple drink to comes down from de concort.”

“Yeeuh.” Pickles grinned crookedly. “Ya knoow, jest a couple. Like a priscription.”

“It'sch good for our health! We're too wound up, guysch!”

Nathan's gaze floated in the direction their rhythm guitarist disappeared. Then his shoulders slumped as he discerned no possible way to disagree and not be called out on over-parenting. “Let's get some fucking booze.”

On nights like this, Nathan couldn't even tell that Toki returned. While the guys initially showed excitement to loosen up in the hot tub, they could've been in mourning for all their energy. They left something behind in the building where Toki auditioned for them; perhaps Magnus already killed their youngest bandmate's spirit before they'd arrived. Toki floated through the hallways like a ghost and, by Nathan's experience, stared through all of them as if they too were nothing more than spectres lost to time.

The frontman mumbled some half-assed excuse about going to bed so that he could leave their grim gathering. Rather than stumble into his room and ditch his clothes again, he passed in lieu to knock on the Norwegian's door. “Toki. You awake?”

“Ja.”

Nathan waited for an invitation, then shrugged before pushing the door open. The bedside lamp illuminated the younger man, still dressed from the concert, laying across his bed with his ankles crossed and fingers entwined over his stomach. He didn't acknowledge that someone entered his space.

“Uhhh. . .” Nathan bowed his head. Now that he stood here, he didn't really know what to say. “Good show tonight.”

“Ja.”

“You gonna get some sleep?”

Shrug.

Mind racing to earn some sort of reaction, Nathan stepped inside and rested the door on its frame. “So I've been thinking. Not very hard, but. . .”

He carried on when Toki showed no curiosity. “You've been bugging us forever to do Halloween. It's coming up next week. What do you say?”

“No thanks.”

“What do you mean, no thanks? Toki, I'm talking like the whole fucking deal. Making the klokateers dress up and shit, going out and fucking getting candy—”

“I can'ts, with my diabetes.”

“We'll make them give us the sugar-free shit.”

“Is pretties gross.”

“Then let's egg some douchebag's house.”

Toki sighed and rolled away.

Nathan didn't put himself out there just to be ignored. Frustrated, he shook the rhythm guitarist's shoulder. “No, this is happening whether you like it or not. You've been moping around here like a fucking baby for too long. Get back to who you were. Fuck all that shit that happened. You're really gonna let Magnus decide who you—?”

“Gets the fuck out of heres.” Toki sat up with a fiery deadness to his eyes. “I don'ts wish to takes part in you stupids Halloween, and franklies, you's being kinds of pathetics right now.”

“Pathetic?” Nathan bared his teeth. “I'm not fucking pathetic! _You're_ pathetic! You think laying around in here staring at your stupid fucking airplanes is going to fix anything?”

“You thinks throwing eggs is?” Toki shot back. “Just leaves me alone! I comes home, I be's in your stupids band, but nones of you are Toki's friend right now. You leaves me there to fuckings die because you guys was too _scared_ , so maybes consider that I don'ts want anythings to do with you rights now. _Anys_ of you. I'd rather stares at my airplanes than even looks at your stupids face.”

Nathan clenched his fist, envisioning it colliding with Toki's chin, but he left before he could lose control of himself. Some klokateers would need to come fix the Norwegian's door though, after how hard he slammed it. 


	2. Thanksgiving

The Dethphone's irritating treble cut Nathan's concentration on the television. He, Murderface, Skwisgaar, and Pickles all hunted their respective devices down to see who got caught in the most recent game of Mom roulette. Murderface heaved a sigh of relief, Skwisgaar's sneer lessened, and Pickles grinned with a 'heh'.

Fuck.

“Hello?” Nathan held the phone an inch or so from his head.

“Nathan, it's your mother.”

“Yeah, I know. What do you want?”

“Your father and I were talking. . .”

Oh god, it was never good when it started like this. _Your father and I were talking and we think you should go into the special education program. Your father and I were talking and we think you might have a drinking problem. Your father and I were talking and we don't think you should be wasting your time playing that noise you call music. Your father and I were talking and we think you should get your GED and go back to school to be a plumber._

“. . .And we think you should come home for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Uhhh, what?” Was she fucking joking?

“This is probably going to be the last Thanksgiving for your grandmother, and we're getting her out of the hospital for the evening. She'd love to see you.”

“The last time we saw one another she threw a pot of boiling water at me.”

“But she missed.”

“I don't think that's the point.”

“Oh Nathan, you know what dementia can be like. She's medicated now!”

“I don't care. I'm not coming.”

“But—”

Nathan dropped his phone into the hot tub. Out of respect, in case she tried to call one of _them_ , the other three guys followed suit. “Ugh.”

“Whet the feck was _thet_ about?” Pickles sipped his cocktail. “Theenksgivin'?”

“My grandma tried the schame schit, sche won't schut up about it!” Murderface erupted. “And sche fucking learned to text. Now sche never leavesch me the fuck alone.”

“See, now dat am a goods reason for you mom to lives outside of de sorvice area. My moms can only calls me on de landline unless she go to town.”

“Yeeuh, well, some of us don't gaht thet luxury. My mom called me too.” Pickles shuddered. “Seth's comin' home this year, 'n' she thaught she'd get both of us. Heh, nope!”

“I fucking hate the holidays,” Nathan stated. “Fucking bullshit.”

Murderface and Pickles agreed, but Skwisgaar paused. “ _We_ ams having a torkey and shits, amn't we?”

“Uhhh. . .” Good question. Normally they did, even if they were too drunk to figure out what differentiated that particular dinner from any other. “I wouldn't see why not.”

“You're not fucking eating it without me, scho I'm in if it'sch going to happen.”

“Dood, maybe Toki'll even come 'n' sit widdus. I'm gonna text 'n' ask—oh. . .” Pickles' gaze found his phone down by his feet. “I'll ask later.”

“I schaw him leave with Dr. Rockscho,” Murderface stated. “He probably won't be back for a while.”

“I's startings to _hates_ dat fucking clowns again.” Skwisgaar's fingers sped up on his guitar. “He ams gettings him drunk on a nightlys basis!”

“Yeeuh, I mean, dood, I waited up last night fer him to come home 'n' it was practically noon! 'N' he'd pissed all over himself!”

For their bitching, none of the other guys would do anything to intervene. They'd all in one way or another been rebuffed by the Norwegian, and one rejection was enough for them to not bother again. Nathan, stubborn as he was, merely bided his time. He forced himself to stay awake in the hot tub after everyone else retired, trading out alcohol for energy drinks. When the hour just about came where the band would rise, dull pounding of a car stereo sounded outside Mordhaus' front doors.

Dr. Rockso's jingling boots came to a stop when he spotted the frontman. The smell of piss, from both he and Toki, wrinkled Nathan's nose. “Uh oh! Looks like we're in ke-ke-ke trouble!”

“Psssh!” Toki staggered toward his room. “I sees you later, Dr. Rockso!”

“Hold on, where do you think _you're_ going?”

“To fuckings bed, where else?”

“Don't—”

“What's you gonna do, tells me I's grounded?” Stringy hair fell into the Norwegian's face. A fresh wash of urine soaked his pants. “Just fucks off. Is not like _you_ didn'ts get drunk last night!”

“I didn't fucking piss myself.”

“Then you gots to ask youself, Nathan,” Toki lowered his voice to a whisper, “ares you _really living?_ ”

Nathan held the younger man at bay so that sweat and piss couldn't transfer over to his robe. “Yeah, maybe it's best if you just go to bed.”

“Fucks you, I does what I want!” Toki retorted. “Maybe I nots going to bed, I's gonna go sits in the hot tub—cannon balls, oh wowee!”

“Toki, don't!” Too late. The Norwegian's bellyflop—a far reach from what he intended—caused a wave of water to rise over the hot tub's edge and coast along the floor. Nathan pulled Toki out by the back of his shirt, ready to give him supreme shit, but he'd already passed out.

“Dood, whet the feck is goin' ahn out here?” Pickles yawned as he came in from the west corridor. “'N' why does it smell like feckin' piss 'n' clowns?”

A klokateer ran over to make sure no water permeated the Norwegian's lungs. “Would you like us to take him to his room, my masters?”

“We'll take care of it. Just get out of here.”

Nathan and Pickles stood over Toki with their arms crossed, unsure what to say. Oblivious, Toki lightly snored. Maybe this was the only way he _could_ sleep.

“Soo. . .should we geddim t' bed then?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Nathan threw the kid over his shoulder with a grunt. “Fuck, though. What a fucking mess.”

Toki landed like a sack of potatoes on his bed, after which Pickles arranged him into a better position for if he should throw up. Precautions taken, neither of them budged.

“He's bin pritty fecked up, lately.”

“Yeah.” Nathan would never admit it, but a recent pain in his stomach had sent him to the doctor. He'd gotten a fucking ulcer from all this bullshit. “He's kinda got a right to hate us, doesn't he?”

“I dunno thet he hates us, Nate. We woulda bin killed in our sleep by now, reet?”

“God, don't even fucking say that.”

“It's jest the feckin' season. I'd be lyin' if I said I didn' get a little fecked up aroond Theenksgivin' 'n' Christmas.”

“Should we even fucking bother asking if he'll come eat with us on Thursday night?” Nathan leaned against the wall. “He'd probably just fucking ruin it.”

“Heey, don' tahlk like thet. He'll prahbly say no, but it don' hert to ask. He likes to feel included.”

“Not anymore.”

“Maybe naht reet now, but there'll be a day when he looks back at how we handled this crep 'n' he'll be glad we bugged him to do it. Even if he didn' show up in the end.”

“I dunno. I'll believe it when I see it.” Uncomfortable that the drummer could maybe sense the frustration, worry, and fear grinding together in the pit of his stomach, Nathan looked away.

Pickles mirrored the larger man's stance, falling quiet. “Toki's bin through worse. Maybe we fecked up by waitin', but we came in the end. He said he appreciated thet. It's normal fer him ta be like this. He's jest. . .dealin'. 'N' thet's good. I'd be werried if he were actin' like nothing happened, ya knoow?”

“I just want this bullshit to be _over_. Magnus is dead, so is that fucker with the metal mask, so why do we have to live through it every fucking day?”

“Because Toki is.” Stilted breath from the bed preceded a twitch of the Norwegian's limbs. Fat tears leaked out of his eyes, as if Nathan didn't feel bad enough already.

“Do we wake him up, or. . .?”

Pickles bounced off the wall and grabbed something brown poking out from under the bed skirt. Some dust needed to be pat off Deddy Bear before being subjected to Toki's tight grip. With that, a rattled sigh and curl of the young man's body seemed to calm his sleep. Bashful under Nathan's contemplative stare, the drummer shrugged. “Seems t' help, anywee.”


	3. Christmas

Toki's promise to come to Thanksgiving dinner fell through, not that anyone was surprised. He hadn't left with Dr. Rockso again, bringing forth the question about what he had better to do, but no one bothered to investigate. Fuck him, if he couldn't even give them this.

The notion that Toki hadn't really survived his ordeal constantly riddled Nathan. What if they'd actually wound up a one-guitar band again? What if they recovered a corpse, rather than their weakened younger brother? What if they played witness to a funeral pyre, the stench of burning flesh curling their nose hairs and finally releasing Toki for the splendorous gates of Valhalla? Could Nathan live with that guilt any easier than that from hesitating? From believing they could do just fine without the Norwegian? From trying to make it work? From forgetting that Toki was more than just some guitarist they picked up after Magnus lost his mind?

He hated himself for his poor decisions, and that animosity probably manifested so much easier for the Norwegian. Therefore it came as a huge surprise to the frontman when, on the twenty-fifth of December, Toki strolled into the recreation room with a towel around his waist. “Minds if I join you dildos?”

“ _Pfft_ , wit' _dat_ kinds of treatment—? Ow!” Skwisgaar flinched when Nathan covertly poked him in the leg with his Dethphone case. “What de fucks was dat?”

“Grab a beer and hop in,” Nathan told him. “Anyway, Pickles, what were you saying?”

“I was jest thinkin' earlier about thet thing where if ya wanna know whet a person's gonna look like when they're older, you look at their peerents. Then I was thinkin' aboot my dad 'n' as far as I remember, he's gaht hair up tahp.”

“The point?”

“Maybe I'm goin' out on a limb, bein' hopeful 'n' all thet crep, but maybe he ain't my real dad?”

The force of Toki's scoff sent a glob of spit into the water. With that, his sober act crumbled before Nathan's eyes. “You don'ts get to choose who's you dad or mom, Pickle.”

“I kin dream, can't I?” the drummer snapped back.

“I tells you all on good confidences that you shaping ups to look like you parents. Looks at all you saggys little boobies, wowee! Evens _you_ , Skwisgaar!”

The Swede bat Toki away before he could demonstrate for the others. “Gets de fucks out of here! Nat'an, tells him to knocks dis off!”

“Geezsch Toki, fuck off if all you're gonna do isch inschult usch!”

“Is likes I sittings in a hot tub full of trannies!”

“ _Scho_ inappropriate. Don't be scho fucking rude!”

“Ams dis all you comes out here to does? Calls us fucking ladies and tell us we got tits? Goes de fuck away, you stupids drunk dildo!”

“Nathan, why aren't you _doing_ anything about thisch? Are you juscht gonna let him get away with it?”

“Toki, could you tone it down a bit?” Nathan grumbled. “You know the rule: no making fun of anyone else in the hot tub for being fat, ugly, bald, or old.”

“Fucks you, you nots my dad. _That_ , I cans choose.” Toki slid down where he sat, beer nearly submerging. “I don'ts has to listens.”

“It's common fucking courtesy. If you're going to be an asshole, then you're not allowed in here.”

“This is my house toos, so I cans go wherevers the fuck I wants _whenevers_ the fuck I wants!”

“We agreed on the fucking rules, Toki!”

“Nots me!”

“We voteds on dem when you was. . .” Skwisgaar trailed off, lips pressed together.

“When I was _whats_ , dumbass?” Toki goaded him. “When I was chaineds up? Hungrys? Being stitched up withouts no freezing needle, hopings you fucking assholes was at least _tryings_ to find me?”

Nathan sighed. “Can we not talk about this?”

“Why, because it sucks to feel guilty abouts being self-centred assholes?”

“You know what, Toki? I've fucking _had_ it with this attitude.” Nathan stood. “Get the fuck out of here and don't come back until you've got an apology for all of us.”

“Why woulds I ever apolgesize to _you?_ You deserves anything I coulds give you, _mores_ even!”

“Okay, that's enough. Let's go.”

A gasp sounded amongst the bassist, lead guitarist, and drummer as Nathan stopped mere inches from grabbing the Norwegian's shoulders. The frontman inhaled deeply, fighting an overwhelming surge of anger as he wiped the projected spit off his cheek.

“Doesn'ts feel so good, does it?” Toki asked. “Getting spits in the—”

Nathan slapped him across the face. “You got a lot of fucking nerve, kid. We've done fucking _nothing_ but try to make you feel at home since you got back.”

“Nate, don't—”

“Shut up!” The frontman turned back to the cowering Norwegian. “If this is all you're going to be like, then maybe we shouldn't have even fucking bothered. You could've stayed and rotted there, for all we cared. We didn't get you back because we like you, anyway. We need you for this band, because apparently our fucking fans see something different than the pathetic, stupid little kid that _we_ know.”

Even the klokateers dusting the chandeliers came to a stop. Toki's gaze fell away from Nathan and swept over the others before he cautiously crawled out of the hot tub and floated off in the direction the frontman pointed him in. Every step seemed to add more weight to his shoulders, causing him to stoop drastically before he shuffled out of sight.

The frontman resumed his seat, well aware that everyone stared. Guilt forced him to squirm. “Fucking quit it. You all wanted me to deal with it, so I did.”

“Next time does us a favour and don'ts talk for de whole band when you say stupid shits like dat.” Skwisgaar reaching for a towel incited the other two to follow suit. “I's going to plays my guitar in my rooms.”

“You made Toki cry,” Murderface needlessly stated. “That'sch a bit too far for me, bro.”

“Dood.” Pickles just shook his head.

“Fine! Fucking go! Who needs a bunch of fucking clowns like you, anyway?”

Nathan threw his beer bottle at the wall when the last pair of footsteps faded away. God fucking damn it. Half pissed, half remorseful, he headed for Toki's. Might as well fucking apologize. Or try. _Fuck!_

“Toki.” He didn't bother knocking before barging into the younger man's room. A little too still for his liking, the Norwegian faced the wall on his bed. Oh god, he didn't—? Nathan beelined over to make sure he still breathed, then stumbled back when an elbow caught him in his throat.

“I's glad you came.” Toki's eyes widened further than Nathan recalled them possible, skin irritated around them and cheeks flushed. “ _Reals_ glad.”

He slammed the door shut with a kick and corralled Nathan by his desk. The frontman coughed again when he bumped into the chair. He couldn't speak, let alone—

“Too bads I got you in the throat.” Despite his shorter stature, Toki towered over Nathan as the veins in his arms became visible in the dim light. He grabbed a baseball bat. “Is goings to make it hards for you to call for helps.” 


	4. New Year's Eve

Nathan remembered nothing between the second crack to his head and swimming his way out of a sea of painkillers. He didn't want anything to do with the bright light he got called toward, but the doctor kept speaking his name. His head spun a little further than he turned it, introducing motion sickness to complement his pounding headache. Airplanes whooshed about if he closed his eyes. “Please just tell me I'm fucking dead.”

“Bad news, then. Whatever.” The doctor rolled his eyes. “You've got a major concussion, a broken arm, four broken ribs, and we just reset your nose to heal. You're not going anywhere for a while, so I'd suggest you get comfy.”

“What about, uh. . .” Nathan strained his memory. He could see brown hair and a fu manchu, but no name attached to it.

“Just get some rest. Here comes the drip again. Whatever.”

Nathan floated in a strange world beneath consciousness. Beeps consisted of his entire existence, broken occasionally by a woman's voice. He cracked an eye open once to see a hooded figure leaning over him. In the next room—whatever that meant—existed the physical pain his body suffered as it tried to breathe, tried to heal the damage done. That guy with the fu manchu was back, standing over him with red glowing eyes and elongated fingers reaching for his throat.

“ _Die. . ._ ”

He shattered into a million pieces before he got close enough. The room grew smaller as pain merged back with Nathan's body. This time when he woke up, he wasn't alone. He struggled again with a name. “Hi.”

“Heey.”

“This is gonna sound really stupid,” it already did, with Nathan's drool-heavy slur, “but I don't know your name.”

“Pickles.”

“Right. Okay. I'll remember that.”

“Gaht some brain damage, huh?”

“Are you telling or asking?”

“Never mind, dood.” Pickles paused. “D'you remember whet happened?”

“Uhh. . .”

“With Toki.”

Toki. There it was, that name Nathan tried so hard to recall. “I dunno.”

“He hit you 'n' shit, reet?”

“Did he?”

If Nathan could feel panic about his disorientation, he would. He sensed that, beyond this bed, he existed as a whole other person. Someone important. Would he get his memory back? Maybe it was the drugs. What if that important someone he used to be had little choice but to fade away? And why? What even happened?

Fearing for the worst, he worked as hard as he could to escape this daze. He ran through names whenever the doctors offered him enough sentience; Pickles always came to mind first, then Toki, then Murderface and Skwisgaar. Their faces became less muddled. Then he remembered being in Toki's room, apologizing for something—right, telling him no one liked him—and all the events leading up to it. The concert. The Doomstar. Toki missing. Funeral. The Church of the Black Klok. Charles returning from the dead. A fire at Mordhaus. Attacked by their fans. Too famous to even comprehend. Toki's audition. Magnus. Jamming in his parents' garage. Football. Class president.

“How long've I been here?” Nathan asked when Pickles came around again. While his ribs fucking killed with every breath he took, he appreciated being lucid enough to hold a conversation. “Don't even try to cushion it. Just fucking tell me.”

“Dood, it's bin like six days.” Pickles plopped down in the chair beside. “Yer gonna be fine. The doctor was sayin' out in the hallway thet yer scans don't show any lastin' damage.”

“. . .Oh.” Nathan already started dealing with the possibility that years passed and only the depths of his bank account kept him alive. The band called it quits, the economy collapsed, and everyone ate each other to avoid starvation.

“Yeeuh.” Pickles shrugged.

“You're the only one that comes here,” Nathan pointed out. “How come?”

“Concussion 'r naht, everyone's still pritty pissed at ya.”

“What about you?”

“A bit,” the drummer conceded. “But I don' think you rilly meant what ya said. Not fer us 'n' naht fer yerself.”

Something brutal welled up in Nathan's chest. Like around Thanksgiving, when he and Pickles got Toki to bed after his night out, he averted his gaze. “No.”

“I know yer frustrated, Nate. We all are. It's gonna be a while before things get back t' normal. You gahtta give Toki time. He's dealin' with a laht of crap, 'n' we ain't helpin' by tryin' to jump in. It's too little, too late.”

“I'm. . .” Nathan exhaled. “I'm just trying so fucking hard to keep this band from falling apart.”

“It ain't helpin' by tellin' Toki things like ya did.”

“I know. I snapped, and I kinda wished for a bit that those things were true, because then this shit would be a lot easier. This is why we swore we'd never interfere with each other's lives. It makes everything too complicated.”

“Those days're kinda gone,” Pickles needlessly stated. “We don't gaht much choice, now.”

“Ugh. There really isn't much more brutal than this.”

“I was lookin' at yer paperwerk. Ulcers, huh?”

Nathan grumbled. “How's Toki doing, anyway? He didn't take that shit I said seriously, did he?”

“Wish I could say no, fer sher. Haven't seen'm. He's goin' out every night with Rahckso again.” Pickles checked his phone. “Ooh, would ya look at thet. It's past midnight.”

“Got somewhere to be?”

“I was gonna be back at the hot tub in time to count down wid Skwisgare 'n' Murderfeece, but feck 'em.” The drummer pat Nathan on the shoulder. “Happy New Year, 'n' shit. Last year feckin' sucked. This one's gahtta be better, reet?”

Their band was in ruins, their rhythm guitarist a mess, and absolutely nothing was certain anymore. Ignoring the overwhelming wash of doubt and trepidation, Nathan nodded. “Yeah. Shit couldn't possibly get any worse.”


End file.
